


The Prompt Table

by Peapods



Category: Being Human, Pundit RPF, Star Trek (2009), Stargate Atlantis, The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-04-13
Updated: 2010-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-08 22:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entries from a very random prompt table</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nitrous Oxide: Gen, Pundit RPF

"So, here's the thing," Erica said on the phone after Charlie picked up. "Have you ever had emergency root canal?"

"Oh, Jesus," Charlie groaned.

"Yeah, and they gave him too much of the laughing gas so he's kind of... um, goofy. They think he's having an adverse reaction." A tell-tale giggle came over the phone.

"Do they have milkshakes?" a slurred and obstructed sounding voice said.

"Andy, honest to God, I've told you six times that they have milkshakes and I will get you one, but you still have not told me whether or not you want a coke too," Erica said patiently. Charlie sighed and waited.

"Am I allowed to use a straw? And caffeine won't mess with my system?"

"Erica?" Charlie asked. "He's got an interview with the President of the United States in four hours."

"You say this like I've forgotten. Why do you think I called you?"

"He can't do the interview sounding like that," Charlie said.

"The President asked for him specifically!"

"'cifically, Charlie!" came Anderson's voice. "He loves me. And my ties."

"Maybe we can convince him to have John or Wolf."

"Memememememe," Anderson slurred.

"We gotta go, Charlie, I don't want Anderson to start drooling on himself again."

*****

"Uh, is he gonna be okay?" President Obama asked, barely able to hold back a grin.

"Um," Erica said with a grimace. "Yes?"

Watching Anderson fumble confusedly with his bottom lip, the president couldn't hold back a laugh.

"Well, this will certainly turn out to be one of my more... interesting interviews."

*****

The next day, Anderson wouldn't come out of his office despite all their coaxing. He'd been that shade of red since he sobered up in the middle of the night and kept saying "my shame is complete."

"It really wasn't that bad," Erica cajoled through the door.

"I asked whether he wore boxers or briefs and then _waggled_ my eyebrows!" came the voice of a seriously anguished man.

It still made Erica laugh, but she kept it quiet. "He laughed! Hysterically! And at length!" she said. "Even Olbermann thought it was hilarious! He's sent you a fruit basket!"

There was silence and then the door opened. "What kind of fruit?" Anderson asked.

Erica smiled. Crisis averted, she thought as she handed over said basket.


	2. Layover: Anderson Cooper/Keith Olbermann, Pundit RPF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a repeat story from "Whatever Works."

"No, really, I've been trying to get another flight," Anderson told Keith as he paced. "But apparently every one on the planet is on their way to New York today."

"Wait a minute, you _promised_ Didi you'd take her to the ballet," Keith said. "I've got my show I can't take her."

"I know," Anderson sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Damnit, Anderson, why the hell were you there so long?"

"Keith," Anderson exclaimed incredulously, "there was a _tornado_ in _December_, forgive me for not forseeing that particular weather pattern. I thought I would be back last night."

Now Keith was sighing, "I know, but damnit this means so much to her."

"I know," Anderson whispered. "Keith, I will _try_ to find a way home, okay? Just-just don't tell Didi."

"All right, in the meantime I'll call Mom and see if she can't come take her in a pinch."

"Okay," Anderson said before hanging up.

*****

"Papa?" Didi asked as Keith began tying his tie.

"Yes, Didi?" he asked, crouching to her level.

"Will Daddy be home in time for the ballet?" she asked, thumb going in her mouth.

Keith pulled it away gently, "of course, sweetie. He can't wait to get home and take you," he said hoping Anderson wouldn't make a liar of him.

"What if he isn't?" Didi asked softly.

"Didi, he'll be here. He wouldn't miss it for the world."

*****

By one in the afternoon Anderson was frantic. There were _no_ flights to New York, not even when he'd finally given in and tried to play the TV news anchor card. Each person he'd talked to had given him the "I'm sorry sir, but..." speech. Finally, he called the only person in Los Angeles who could help him.

"Hello?"

"Ryan! It's Anderson," he said, ignoring the startled look of the woman next to him.

"Andy! Hi! Are you in L.A.?" Ryan Seacrest asked, even with a young woman whispering frantically to him in the background of the call.

"Yes, yes I am and I don't _want_ to be. I need your help."

"What's up dude?"

"Do you know anyone with a plane?"

"Seriously?" Ryan asked, with a laugh.

"Yes, please, Ryan. I got stuck in Canada in a freak tornado and I thought I would be back in time, but I can't find a flight anywhere and--"

"Anderson! Calm down!" Ryan cried. "Why do you need to get home so badly?"

"My daughter, Didi, I promised I would take her to the ballet tonight and she's going to be heartbroken if I don't," Anderson said, feeling his voice break. It was supposed to be a special night, an early Christmas present, for just him and Didi.

"Okay, hey, lemme make a call, okay? I'll call you right back," Ryan said, suddenly all business.

"Okay," Anderson said, hanging up. He went to the lounge and threw himself into a chair and buried his head in his hands. He really hoped, couldn't help but _pray_ that Ryan could help him. Missing this would set a dangerous precedent. It was true, Anderson didn't travel as much anymore. But his new book, a novel, had required more far-reaching publicity than usual. It was a given, in the schedule, that he wouldn't have been able to be there for her music recital a few months before, but this would have made up for it. He wanted every moment he could get with his daughter and he hated to think that a tornado and a recalcitrant airport would steal even a second from him.

Twenty minutes later, frustrated, sad, and too close to taking a stewardess hostage for comfort, his phone rang again.

"Ryan?!" he asked, jumping up.

"You've got ten minutes to get to Simon's plane, he's waiting for you," Ryan said rattling off the directions.

"Ryan, you have no idea how much this means to me," Anderson said even as he began gathering his things.

"I know, and that's why I'm not kicking your ass for making me use the favor Simon owed me on you," Ryan said. "Now go! And say hello to Didi and Keith for me."

"I will, thank you Ryan," Anderson said before running out of the lounge.

*****

"Cooper the family man," said a British voice as he stepped onto the most luxurious plane he'd even been on. Although, he'd been on several military transports so that wasn't much a qualifier.

"I can't thank you enough Mr. Cowell," Anderson said, taking the offered hand.

"No need to thank me, Anderson," Simon Cowell said gesturing him inside. "And you _can_ call me Simon, your entire country does so already." It made Anderson giggle.

"Yes, I uh, well still I do need to thank you because this means so much to me," they sat in the swinging arm chairs.

"Yes, I understand you and your daughter are to go to the ballet tonight," Simon said gesturing to a steward to pour them drinks. Anderson refused the scotch, but eagerly took the Coke.

"We've been talking about it for ages. A freak tornado kept me in Vancouver much longer than I'd planned, there were no flights out. It would have broken her heart not to be able to go. So, I called Ryan."

Simon regarded him the eye of a businessman for a long moment. "Anderson, I do believe you are on the most decent human beings I've ever had the privilege to meet."

*****

It was six forty-five by the time Simon's plane landed and Anderson only issued the most perfunctory goodbye as he flew out of the airport and grabbed the nearest cab. The ride to the house would take too long. He would have to stop at his mother's and then go straight to the theater.

"Marie! It's Anderson," he said into the phone as he began taking off his coat and jacket, ready to run in and get quickly changed.

"Anderson! Are you home?" She asked, quietly.

"Yes, I am but I won't have time to get home. Are you on your way to the theater?

"Yes, we were about to leave."

"I'll meet you there. Oh and don't tell her, I wanna surprise her," Anderson said as the cab pulled up to his mother's home.

"Of course, Anderson," she said.

Anderson jumped out of the cab and quickly entered the code for his mother's home, running in with a frantic, "Mom! Where's my tux?"

His mother appeared from her studio with a confused look on her face. "Why do you want your tux? Anderson, what are you doing here, you're supposed to be--"

"At the theater yes, but I had a plane foul-up and only just got back to New York. Is it in storage or--?"

"Here," she went into one of her spare rooms and threw open a closet door, flicking through old dresses and garment bags until she pulled one out, seemingly at random. "Are you certain you can still fit into it?"

"I'll have to try," he said, quickly stripping. The pants still fit almost exactly, which he was going to think of as a good thing. The shirt, though a little tight over the shoulders, also buttoned with little problem. His mother helped him strap on the cummerbund while he tied his tie. Thankfully, his mother hadn't been able to talk him into anything but a classic tux all those years ago and Anderson had immediately replaced the bow tie with a regular one. It would look only slightly outdated, but outdated was apparently coming back in style anyway.

"You're all done," she said. He pulled the jacket on, again, a little tight, but not noticeably so and turned around for her approval. She nodded and gestured grandly to the door. "Your princess awaits, Anderson."

*****

Marie Olbermann hated pretense. For one thing, it was dishonest. For another, she was very bad it. And the heartbroken look on Didi's face wasn't helping the matter.

"He said he'd be here," Didi said. "Papa never lies."

"I'm sure he tried very hard to be here, sweetheart, he wanted nothing more," Marie said, not looking at her granddaughter. Around them, happier children and parents mingled, buying daughters Clara dolls and sons small Nutcracker Princes.

The lights began to flicker and so did Marie's heart. Maybe Anderson really _wouldn't_ make it. She took Didi's hand and began leading her closer to their entrance, looking around her all the while, hoping for a glimpse of tell-tale white hair.

"Wait! I'm here!" came a hurried voice and Marie and Didi both turned to see Anderson, breathless, but dapper in his tux jogging towards them.

"Daddy!" Didi squealed, pulling away from Marie and running towards her father. Her small curls bounced wildly from the semblance of order Marie had managed to get it into earlier that evening and she was almost afraid Didi would trip on her long dress. But Anderson came forward and scooped her up easily. "You made it!"

"Of course I did," he said with all the confidence in the world. "You thought I wouldn't?"

"But Gigi was here!"

"And didn't I say he'd be here?" Marie asked.

"You were so late!" she said, wide-eyed. Anderson smiled warmly kissing his daughter's brow

"I know, sweetie, you should have seen me rushing around New York City. I'm even wearing a tux from when I was nearly _your_ age," he said, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket, eliciting more giggles.

"It is not!" she protested.

"Close enough!" he said with faux-offense. "Now, I believe the ballet awaits us." He set her down and offered her a hand which she took. They both waved goodbye to Marie, Anderson throwing her a silent, grateful 'thank you' even as Didi chattered excitedly beside him.

Marie, for her part, pulled out her new cell phone and with new found skill sent her son the following text:

"The Regal Bird has landed."


	3. Gridlock: Gen, Stargate Atlantis

"This is something I didn't miss," Rodney sighed as they crawled forward another inch. "And I don't know _why_ you insist on moving the car a few inches every minute just to give the _illusion_ that we're moving when it is very obvious, given our new proximity to the bumper of the ahead car that we are emphatically _not_."

John just grinned. "You just like using ten words when one would have sufficed, don't you?"

"I see no reason to limit my vocabulary just so the most Neandrathal among the species won't have to strain their limited mental capacity to understand me," Rodney complained. In the back seat Ronon and Teyla exchanged exasperated, if amused, looks. "As it is it's either talk or choke on the silence and car exhaust."

"We could play a game," John suggested. Teyla gave him a warning look.

"I am not playing "I Spy" or "Twenty Questions" or "I never"," Rodney immediately said. "Why can't we just listen to music?"

"I guess you'd like to listen to that classical junk," John said.

"That 'classical junk', you uncouth trogolodyte--"

"Dungeons and Dragons reference," John interrupted.

"--is one of the most important cultural texts on earth. Of course as someone who thinks the Man in Black is the height of musical virtuosity, I am not at all surprised by your complete lack of appreciation."

"I like AC/DC," Ronon rumbled from the backseat.

"You would," Rodney shot back.

"Is there not a station where we can hear all of these things, John?" Teyla asked, ever the diplomat.

"Not in Denver, Colorado," John said.

"You'll get your run of the mill Top 40 stations, a couple classic rock stations, the one indie station that just _revels_ in its own pretension and cleverness, a classical station, and more country stations than you can shake a stick at, but none that play _all_ of that," Rodney said.

"We could always sing," John said evilly.

"Absolutely not," Rodney said, lightning fast. But John was already humming.

"_Just a small town girl! Living in a lonely world! She took the midnight train going anywhere!_" John sang, horribly off-key and scratchy.

"STOP!"

"_Just a city boy! Born and raised in South Detroit! He took the midnight train going anywhere!_"

"I will get _out_ of this car!" Rodney threatened, but John quickly hit the child locks.

"_A singer in a smoky room! A smell of wine and cheap perfume! For a smile they can share the night! It goes on and on and on!_"

When Ronon and Teyla joined in at the bridge, Rodney conceded defeat and joined in, singing louder than any of them.

There was no beating Journey, after all.


	4. Invasion: Gen, The X-Files

"Sorry about this," Scully said with a rueful smile as a yawning Byers let her in to the Lone Gunmen lair.

"It's really no problem," he told her, voice rough with sleep.

"I would've gone to Mulder's, but we're fighting this week," she told him with a roll of her eyes. Six years she had worked with that man and almost no one else could make her want to tear out her hair more quickly.

"What about?" Byers asked,

"Either the caloric content of the new sandwiches at the K Street Deli or his bad taste in porn," Scully said dryly. "I'm really not certain which set it off."

"And it escalated to?"

"The usual. He treats me bad, I don't trust him, he's overly interested in my social life, I'm overly interested in _having_ a social life," she said, shrugging it off.

"So, the usual?" Byers asked, leading her to the small kitchenette, quirking the unexpected smirk.

"Yes. And on top of the paperwork and the recently closed case and the professional review coming up my apartment decides that, no, heat is _not_ a necessity in Washington D.C. during January."

"I'm glad we could be of help," Byers said in his trademark soft voice. She smiled at him. "Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"Tea would be... would be really nice," she said, seating herself at the small table. Byers busied himself with the task of making and pouring tea, ignoring his own yawns. She watched as he discretely breathed in the scent of the chai before he poured the cups. He set her mug plus sugar and cream on the table. She fixed her tea to her satisfaction and watched with affection as he did the same.

She never paid enough attention to the most quiet lone gunman. She was usually too distracted by the uncomfortable flattery of Frohike and the strange punk rock/geek character of Langley. Byers, on the other hand, made her believe what they dished out. He had facts, a beautifully even voice, a beautifully even appearance.

"Honest to God, I wonder why I even bother anymore," she said as she sipped at her tea.

"Bother with what?" Byers asked, obviously not wishing to presume.

"Bother staying with Mulder, bother trying to figure out really happened to me, to make me who I--"

"Not who," Byers interrupted unexpectedly, looking strangely intent. "What happened to you doesn't make you... you're still you no matter what your body can do." He didn't look at her. He sipped his tea and nibbled at the cookies he'd brought out. Scully was unaccountably charmed, touched, by his words. She placed a hand over his, staring at him until he raised his eyes, smiling at him when he did.

"Thank you," she said. "I've been so...concerned with what becomes of me, what else I can do besides catch criminals and chase dead ends. Mulder, for all his good intent, doesn't see beyond the case, beyond what can be learned. It's nice to know that there's more."

Her throat caught, pausing, ending, her words. They sat in silence, sipping their tea, nibbling on cookies. Scully wondered why Byers was here, a part of this strange trio. She wondered why she'd chosen here instead of her mother's, a friend's, a hotel.

"I'm... happy you trusted us enough to come here," Byers spoke tentatively, more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him.

"There's hardly anyone I trust more," she told him truthfully, voice turning husky.

His smile lit up the small space, a smile she doubted even his roommates had seen. She smiled back, pleased that she had chosen this place to come to.

Had chosen him as her respite.


	5. Preamble: Anderson Cooper/Keith Olbermann, Pundit RPF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some are better than others :/

"Oh, hey Anderson!" Aaron Brown's producer yelled to him. Anderson, just finished with the editorial meeting, walked over to her and a very tall man in a very ugly suit.

"Yeah, Sharon?"

"This is Keith Olbermann," Anderson shook the man's hand, noting that it matched his large size. "He'll be analyzing the baseball situation."

"Oh, good," Anderson said, smiling at the man. "I am, unfortunately, woefully undereducated on the subject."

"I can help you with that," the man said with a small smile.

"Good," Anderson responded with a nod, nodding again at Sharon as she was called away. "How do you propose going about this education?"

"Well, first we must ascertain whether you have a particular preference of team," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"Um," Anderson prevaricated with a nervous giggle. "Well, the Yankees I suppose." This brought a broader grin to Keith's face.

"Anderson, I do believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship."


	6. Exception: John Mitchell/George Sands, Being Human

Vampires and werewolves do not run in the same circles.

Until they do.

Vampires and werewolves do not get flats together.

Until they do.

Vampires and werewolves do not shag each other while the voyeur, live-in ghost pretends she's not watching.

Until they do.

"Would you stop being so worried?" Mitchell tells him, kissing him on the neck, running his tongue along the chain of his necklace.

"I just thought we should be mindful of the fact that you _are_, in fact, a vampire and the result of a vampire biting a werewolf has not been recorded," George says, his voice high with apprehension, but breathy with involuntary arousal.

"I'm not going to bite you, George," Mitchell whispers, bringing George round enough to kiss him. George eagerly returns it, squeaking and making obscenely high pitched noises when Mitchell cups his groin. "I love this about you. You're so open. No notions of machismo, just you."

"It's embarrassing."

"No," Mitchell says harshly. He smiles and shrugs a little. "It's... endearing."

"Endearing?!" George asks, voice cracking in the middle.

"George," Mitchell says, laughing. "Don't ever change."


	7. Credit: Anderson Cooper/Keith Olberman, Pundit RPF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn Ahoy.

"Why do you insist on these _waistcoats_?" Keith asked as he tied his tie.

Anderson glared at him. "First of all, it's a vest, waistcoats were invented for men too cheap to get the full back. Second of all, you look _good_ in it, Keith." He picked up the gray vest and approached his lover. Keith held his arms behind him and Anderson slipped the vest on. Keith shrugged it into place but when he went to button it, Anderson slapped his hands away.

He smiled up at Keith and smoothed his tie before beginning to button it.

"You like dressing me?"

"Yes, I do," Anderson said as he finished the buttons and smoothed the front of Keith's suit. "You look... sophisticated."

"So why don't you ever wear them?"

"I can't carry them off," Anderson said with a shrug. "I'm too skinny."

"Whereas I have all sorts of girth to hide," Keith said self-loathingly.

"_No_," Anderson said, wrapping his arms around Keith's, admittedly expanded, middle and looked up into his face. "You've gained some weight, we both know that. But we also know that you're trying to lose it! This is slimming," Anderson smiled, letting it spread across his face. "It makes you look...dapper."

"Did you just use the word 'dapper'? What are we nineteenth century bankers?"

"No, in that case you'd have to wear a pocket square and a hat. And you look terrible in any hat that's not a baseball cap."

Keith smiled down at him before kissing him and stepping back. "All right, I gotta get going."

"See you later tonight?"

"You going to be there longer than usual?"

Anderson shrugged. "Shouldn't be."

"Good."

*****

Coming back to the hotel that night, Anderson was surprised to see Keith still wearing half his suit. He'd disposed of jacket and shoes, but nothing else. Anderson put down his brief case and stretched, letting out a loud yawn. He was really getting tired of some of the crap they made him cover.

"Why are you still dressed?" Anderson asked as he stripped off his own suit and got out clean pajamas. Usually, when he got home, Keith was in his own pajamas, usually watching something on ESPN and doing the crossword puzzle.

"Well, you dressed me this morning," Keith started. "I figured you might like to undress me as well."

Anderson paused before he pulled on his t-shirt and stared at Keith. The man was smiling lightly at him. Anderson let a smile come to his face as well and he dropped the shirt on the ground. He slunk over to the bed, rolling his hips in a way that guaranteed Keith's attention to that portion of his anatomy. Keith was sitting on the bed with his back against the head board. Anderson straddled his lap and kissing him on the brow and cheeks inhaling the smell of the cleaner he used to remove the pancake from his broadcast. His fingers, meanwhile, began to flick open the buttons of Keith's vest.

"You get any compliments, today?"

"Quite a few," Keith conceded, letting his hands wander up and down Anderson's arms and back. "Apparently, vests are quite a hit among the ladies."

"And probably some men too," Anderson amended, adding a saucy wink to the statement.

"If it was, I didn't notice," Keith said, all too innocently.

"I'm sure," Anderson let him get away with it, undoing his tie and running his hands down his lover's chest.

"So, do I get any other reward for dressing to your satisfaction?"

Anderson smiled. "I don't know, what do you think you deserve for your cooperation?"

"I think I deserve a blow job," Keith told him, looking mock serious.

Anderson grinned. "I think that can be arranged."

He completely undressed Keith, letting Keith's body hair brush against his sensitive skin. He kissed his neck and his clavicles, sucking lightly at the skin that covered the sensitive bones. He nipped and licked at Keith nipples, enjoying the flush that deepened on his chest. Keith's hands, idle at his sides, made clenching motions.

"You can touch me, Keith, it is your reward after all," Anderson said as he blew on the peaked nipples which broke out in gooseflesh at this action. Keith moaned a little and pressed on hand into Anderson's hair and grabbed his bicep with the other.

Anderson left soft kisses all down Keith's belly, the kind he loved, taking a stab into his bellybutton, tasting the sweat and exertion of the day. Keith's stomach contracted a little at the action, but he did nothing to guide Anderson's actions.

Finally, he took the head of Keith's erection his mouth, flattening his togue against the bottom and licking upwards into the slit. Keith let out a moan and spread his legs more. Anderson smiled and licked tiny stripes down to his sac which he then lathed with his tongue, fingers pressing lightly against Keith's perineum.

"Really fucking criminal that I'm the only one that gets to enjoy this mouth," Keith said in a rush as Anderson began a return journey up his cock.

"You seriously wanna hand me out to brag about how good my mouth is?" Anderson asked, nipping lightly at loose skin, watching Keith's cock jerk.

"I'd take out a billboard. It'd say 'neener, neener, neener' in --_shit_\--huge letters," Keith said as Anderson lowered his mouth over his cock and began sucking in earnest. Anderson liked sucking cock. That was all there was to it really. There was a power in it, a sensual circuit that lit Anderson up as much as it did his partner. He remembered his first boyfriend in college. They had dated for three weeks before even getting to handjobs and Anderson had taken the time then and after, to do vociferous research on how to give the perfect blowjob--something his brother Carter never let him forget after he walked in on him reading up on it in a Playgirl magazine. He'd been so nervous his first time that he'd nearly bit his boyfriend's dick off. But the act itself had turned Anderson on so much that the boyfriend hadn't even needed to return the favor.

It had happened several times with Keith. The first time. The time after they broke up before Katrina and then got back together after Katrina. And the day Rachel's new show had started. The latter time had been more about reminding Keith who he belonged to, to remind him that even if Rachel wanted to she'd have to fight Anderson tooth and nail for him. And she would lose. Anderson was a jealous motherfucker even if he loved Rachel to absolute bits.

In the here and now, Anderson had very little to worry about. Keith's hips were restless, desperate to thrust and Anderson lifted his hands to let him. With a control Anderson was amazed to see he still possessed, Keith fucked his mouth. Anderson closed his eyes at the sensation, moaning a little himself, causing a ripple in Keith's careful rhythm. Anderson sucked hard as Keith's hips snapped faster and faster.

Keith grunted and came, letting out shuddering breaths that echoed with his deep tone--unvoiced thoughts. Anderson swallowed easily, taking Keith down gently, ignoring his own urgent erection.

"I'll wear a vest everyday if it gets me one of those," Keith said, sounding spacey.

"That wouldn't be any fun," Anderson contested. "Your dick would miss my ass. My ass would miss your dick, for that matter."

"You are so vulgar, Andy."

"You love it. Now, since you've had _your_ reward, I think it's time for mine," Anderson said laying at his side, and rubbing insistently against Keith's hip.

"_Your_ reward?"

"Yes, I am taking all the credit for those compliments you received. So, get to it Mr. Olbermann, I'm not being paid for this you know."


	8. Montage: Anderson Cooper/Keith Olbermann, Pundit RPF

"I'm fairly certain that's _not_ how you cook leeks."

*

"Have you seen my lucky jock strap?"

*

"That's it, you're not allowed to handle cutlery or china while getting worked up about the Bush Administration."

*

"You taste like fruity chapstick. You shouldn't borrow it from Erica."

*

"You _do_ realize she's gay, right? And that you're in a committed relationship?"

*

"Goddamnit, no, you don't get to guilt me on this."

*

"Please tell me that wasn't your mother."

*

"How do you do it then? Boil 'em? Mash 'em? Stick 'em in a stew?"

*

"It's in your underwear drawer underneath your Daffy Duck boxers."

*

"So, I'll buy new plates! And I only almost impaled the dog _once_."

*

"Gotta make do with what's available, Keith. Even if it does make me taste like a 12 year old girl."

*

"Of _course_ I do, does that mean I can't dream?"

*

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that being partners meant that we told each other things! My mistake!"

*

"You said something about private school, didn't you."

*

"_Lord of the Rings_ references aside, why not try that hot pot thing that Stan told us about?"

*

"Oh, man, did I wash this after the last time?"

*

"See that you do and she didn't come near you for two weeks!"

*

"I'm telling Erica you called her a 12 year old girl, now let me get the rest of that off you."

*

"The content of your dreams is entirely your own business so long as the content of your _pants_ is solely mine.

*

"Fine! I should have told you, but damnit Anderson, you're not the most open person in the world!"

*

"Just tell her I have Tourettes or something."

*

"I love you."

*

"Love you, too, kid."


	9. Roll: Anderson Cooper/Keith Olbermann, Pundit RPF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more fluff in this than I care to lay claim to.

_To my friend, on his birthday,_ the card read in an unknown hand-writing. Keith glanced at the front again, brow furrowed and read on. _I noticed you noticing this particular confection one day. You didn't see me, amazingly, but I saw you and you were practically drooling over them. I asked the baker to make a batch that was gluten-free. I hope they are as good as the originals. Please take them with all my best wishes._

It was unsigned. He opened up the small pink box and pulled apart the parchment paper and stared in confusion, a little touched. Nestled in the paper were three little... rolls. They were covered in a sticky sauce that had pooled in the bottom and were still a little warm. He yelled for his PA and gestured with the box when she came in.

"Where did these come from?"

She smiled at him, "I'm not at liberty to say. I wasn't _exactly_ sworn to secrecy, but I was told that they were emphatically _not_ poisoned. And to say 'Happy Birthday' again," she said.

"Taste one and make sure?" he asked, only half-joking. She raised an eyebrow and crossed the office, delicately peeling one of the rolls on the bottom and tearing off a piece, careful to make sure the flakes and sauce went back in the box, and popped it into her mouth.

"See, not dead, and wow, can I have the whole thing?" But Keith had snatched the box away from her before her hand could get near it.

"They're mine!"

"Baby," she said before leaving. He bit into the confection she had torn from and had to close his eyes, letting out a little groan of pure pleasure. He didn't even take a sip of coffee to wash it down, wanting the flavor to remain as untainted as possible.

Who knew him well enough to get them gluten-free and who cared enough to even _ask_?

*****

_To my friend on his birthday,_ the note on his door read. _I hope you enjoyed the rolls. I have one more gift for you, but it's going to take a little more effort on your part to get it. You can meet me at Rockefeller Center's ice rink at seven tomorrow._

Now, Keith was a little freaked out. Someone who knew where he lived and was wily, or charming, enough to bribe his doorman to get all the way up here. He narrowed his eyes and opened his door cautiously. The interior looked much as he'd left it, dark and smelling of stale coffee. So, his unexpected benefactor/stalker hadn't made their way inside. And, had they asked him out on a date?

*****

"You should go," Rachel said, stealing another fry from his plate.

"Go meet stalker person at the ice-rink? Are you crazy?"

"Hey, look at it this way, there will be plenty of people around and hell, we'll come with if you want," she said. Though it was Saturday, she and Susan were spending the weekend in the city. Susan nodded and slapped Rachel's hand when she went for her own plate of fries. Keith grinned.

"All right, I'll go, and you two will go too."

"We need a high sign to get outta there if she's cute or not-crazy," Rachel said. "Can you do the Vulcan salute?"

"I am not going to do the Vulcan salute," Keith said. "I'll... stick my hands in my coat pockets _or_ take them out."

"Jeez, talk about straining the vision," Rachel grumbled.

That evening they met at their offices before descending down to the ice-rink's level. He had to wonder whether he was going to be doing any actual ice-skating or whether this was just a meeting place. Before whoever this was took him out, killed him, and dumped his body somewhere. The place was teeming, given the relatively good weather and the falling snow. The place was lit up like it was still Christmas. They took their places against the rail, watching people fall and others do graceful turns and jumps.

Now, how the hell was he supposed to know--

His thoughts were interrupted as a familiar head of hair slid to a fluid stop in front of him. "Uh..." he said intelligently.

"You know, that place will do those rolls gluten-free for you if you just ask," Anderson Cooper said with a small smile. "Happy birthday, Keith."

"It was you?" Keith asked, taking his hands out of his pockets. He saw Anderson's eyes flicker to Susan and Rachel as they left.

"Yeah, sorry about all the mystery," he said, with a self-deprecating laugh, a hand coming up to shake a few snowflakes from his hair. He really should have been wearing a hat with how close-cropped he kept his hair. Keith frowned.

"Why?"

Anderson shrugged. "I had contract negotiations last week. I declined to renew my contract."

Keith goggled, incredulously, and asked "So, _now_ you decide to get the boyfriend and 2.4 kids and come out? Is that it?"

Instead of being offended, Anderson just laughed. He had always looked young, but without the burden of his job, ratings, or the world, he looked even younger. More innocent. Keith was unaccountably and involuntarily charmed.

"_So_, I've always liked you, ever since the baseball strike that never was, and I was just waiting. I wasn't ready before and now I am and well, I thought I'd take a shot in the dark."

"Without any thought to the risk?" Keith asked. While Anderson wasn't the type to think about risk in the course of his work, Keith had the impression that risk in his personal life wasn't something he took.

"Plenty," Anderson said, the lines around his still smiling mouth relaxing a little, its brilliance dimming just slightly. "But, I've spent a lot of my life alone by myself and now I don't have to so I thought I'd go after the one person who I'd really like to spend the rest of my life being alone with." It was atrocious English, a sentence that made Keith cringe a little, but he certainly understood the sentiment. "You can walk away right now and I won't be heartbroken. Disappointed, sure, but I've gotten over letting my life be ruled by tragedy and sadness. For once, I thought I'd be brave."

And there was the crux of it. Ten years ago, he and Anderson had hit it off and then never seen each other again until they had their own shows. From there it had been a war of words about journalistic integrity and ratings and personal lives--admittedly almost entirely one-sided, and almost entirely _Keith's_ side--and then a truce. Now this man was standing in front of him asking for a chance they should have had in 2002, but were nowhere near ready to take.

Keith let himself smile a little, "So, I've never actually been ice skating before," he said conversationally. "Care to teach me?"

"I'll even make sure you don't fall and crush any small children," Anderson returned.

"Or break a hip."

"Or run into the walls, I know about your depth perception problem."

"Anderson, I do believe this is the beginning--"

"I'm begging you not to finish that sentence."

"So, I guess calling you 'kid' is out as well?"

"Well, you would be the old man in this relationship."

"The things we put up with for love."


	10. Lubber: Anderson Cooper/Keith Olbermann, Pundit RPF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEwZwlQB924.

"So, you'd have no problem if I were an animal/human hybrid?" Anderson asked as Keith served up their dinner.

"Anderson, you could live in a giant fish tank and so long as your mouth still worked, I wouldn't care," Keith said.

"I want to think that's complimenting my conversational skill, but I know better. Anyway, what makes you think, if I were, say, a merman, that I'd pick a landlubber like you?"

"Landlubber?" Keith asked with a surprised laugh. "I happen to think I'm quite a catch."

"So, I take it you could actually stand boat travel? I don't think you need depth perception to sail a ship."

"I haven't had occasion to sail a vessel like what you're probably thinking."

"Well, to be perfectly fair who has who isn't Johnny Depp?"

"Anyway, in this far-fetched, mythical situation you've placed us in, why wouldn't you choose someone like me?"

Anderson shrugged, "Certain of your friends have prejudices against mermen."

It made Keith pause. Anderson looked up, eyes twinkling, smile threatening to break and small snorts coming from his nose as he tried not to laugh. Keith finally let it go and laughed heartily.


	11. Weathercock: James T. Kirk/Spock, Star Trek (2009)

The farmhouse was old, creaking, a weather-beaten structure of white washed boards and rusty nails. He'd lived here for half his life and then he'd gotten out as soon as he'd made enough money to get a place of his own.

Technology was able to do many things these days, but changing the weather was not one of them. Swathes of the house were gone, torn off by the violent winds of the tornado that had ripped through his hometown and made it a disaster area. Now, he was sure, Starfleet was kicking itself for thinking a shipyard in the middle of the Mid-West would be a great idea. He kicked aside a board and approached the house. To look at the sky now, you would never have known anything untoward had happened. In the early morning hours, a fog lay upon the ground as the sun rose and there was hardly even a breeze in the hot, muggy countryside much less a squall of unforgiving wind.

At the edge of the property, a woman rose, pushing wavy blond strands of hair from her forehead.

"Hi, mom," Jim said. Winona Kirk whirled around, looking surprised and happy. A happiness tempered by mistakes and recriminations and all that wasn't and could never be.

"Jim," she said, coming forward. Jim mindlessly accepted her hug, marveling how sons outgrew their mothers. Jim had thought he had outgrew her years ago. He watched class mates shrug off their mothers' doting affections and wish he could do the same. His mother loved him, he knew that, but there was a double-edge to it, the notion that maybe that love wasn't only his. Maybe it was selfish, to wish his mother could just see Jim as Jim, but he couldn't help it. He didn't remember his father and had forever lived in his shadow. He didn't know which one of his parents should be the focus of his resentment. It was easier to focus on the one who was still alive. At least in those early days.

Maybe it was that, in all his years, Jim Kirk had been trying to establish an identity that had nothing to do with Winona and George Kirk.

"Pretty bad damage," he said, noncommittally.

"Not too bad," Winona contradicted. "Nothing that can't be repaired."

"You want to repair it?" Jim asked. It had always seemed as though she was as hemmed in by this place as he, hemmed in by George Kirk and all his fucking expectations.

"Of course," she said, eyebrows raised. "This place is yours, Jim. Your dad wanted you and George to have it after we were gone."

He had no intention of ever living here. If it were possible he would stay in space for the rest of his days, no matter how long that might turn out to be.

"Mom," he started.

"I know, you're in Starfleet and right now you feel like that's all you'll want to do for the rest of your life, but some time in the future you may want a family, some place you can come home too."

Jim had never felt that this was home. He'd felt trapped here, out of his skin with a feeling of not-belonging. It was only on the Enterprise, shiny bridge and grimy Engineering, that he felt the buzzing of needing to run, needing to _find_, tempered. And that had nothing to do with being on an exploratory vessel.

"Sure, Mom," he said instead.

"Gonna introduce me to your friend?"

Jim furrowed his brow and followed her gaze to the end of the dirt drive. In his Academy grays and carrying a small case, Spock had rarely looked more out of place. Jim himself had changed into jeans and a t-shirt, knowing what expression command gold would put on his mother's face. In their two months of shore leave Spock had taken to teaching a class. Jim wondered what he was doing in the middle of bum-fuck Iowa at nine a.m. on a Wednesday. The other man seemed to catch sight of Jim and headed their way.

"Commander?" he asked, because he wasn't sure what question should come first.

"I have requested Lieutenant Uhura take over teaching my class. I," and for once Spock looks unsure, "I came to offer any assistance you might need in rebuilding."

"Spock--"

"We'll take it," Winona broke in. "Jim, the fence out back took a beating. Try and set it to rights?"

Jim thought about protesting, but knew it would be pointless. Spock would be polite, his mom would stare at him daring him to act like a child. He skipped over the inevitable embarrassment and just sauntered off toward the backyard. He heard Spock say something to his mother before the even gait followed him. He stopped at the shed--amazingly, not ruined--and grabbed the tool box.

He approached the beaten down fence and noted the missing boards. "We'll get the structure back up and then worry about the missing boards. You do now how to use a hammer, right?" he teased.

"I believe I can accurately ascertain its use, yes," Spock replied. Jim shot a grin in his direction.

They got to work silently, with Jim not having to give Spock many directives.

"This structure is very old," Spock said, indicating the farmhouse.

"Yeah, built early twentieth century. It's had some upgrades, but it's mostly in its original state."

"You passed your childhood here?" Jim pinned him with a look for the question, Spock didn't even raise an eyebrow.

"I thought that much would have been obvious."

"I did not wish to presume."

"Yeah, it was my dad's. Lived here 'til I was seventeen."

"You do not consider it your home?"

"The Enterprise is my home, Spock," Jim told him.

Spock gave him a long look even as his hammer hit each nail perfectly. "And yet you return to this place to repair damage sustained in a storm."

"My mom does still live here, Spock. She couldn't do it all on her own."

A breeze ruffled Spock's ridiculous haircut and Jim's eyes instinctively went to the weathercock on top of the barn. However, it wasn't in its customary spot. His eyes raked over the roof of the barn, but there was no sign. Without mentioning it to Spock, he dropped his hammer and started back in the direction of the barn. He heard the questioning "Jim?" behind him, but paid it no mind as he searched the ground and brush surrounding the barn for the vane.

"Jim," Spock said, grabbing his arm. Jim spun around, surprised. Spock rarely used physical force to get someone's attention. "Your behavior is very mysterious. You appear to be searching for something."

"The weathercock," Jim said shortly, tearing away and resuming his search.

"I am afraid I am unfamiliar with this object."

"It's uh, it's this thing that swings around with the wind, tells you which direction it's blowing."

"Could you not ascertain such a thing from the position of the sun?"

"It's ornamental," Jim explained. "The first one, or at least, a very famous one, was atop a Roman tower dedicated to eight deities of the wind."

"Is this the object in question?" Spock asked, easily hefting the heavy iron ornament up for Jim to see. A sigh of relief that Jim didn't want to admit to escaped him and he met Spock halfway.

"Yeah, he said softly. The rusty weathercock had seen many years service. "Help me put it back up?"

They retrieved the tall ladder and scrambled up it, Spock still carrying the vane. The place where it had been affixed was a little worse for wear, showing where the screws had basically been pulled right out of the rotting wood. Jim got some new wood and a drill. They attached the weathercock and tested its strength before climbing back down.

"This ornament is important to you," Spock stated matter-of-factly. "I imagine it's a family heirloom."

"Uh," Jim laughed, "no, actually. It's uh, my dad apparently bought it. Flea market find."

"A flea market?" Spock's voice fairly dripped with derision.

"Antiques, novelty items, food, lots of stuff," Jim clarified. "He stuck it up there himself, according to mom anyway and nearly busted his butt doing it. Said, "in space, you never know which way the wind is blowing--""

"Space is a vacuum and therefore--"

"It's a metaphor, Spock," Jim cut him off.

"For what, exactly?"

"For," he shrugged. "The directions life take you. The decisions you make. The Earth has wind patterns and they change seasonally. Some people took that as a sign of more than just weather patterns."

"I believe I begin to understand."

"You think?" Jim let a small smile grace his lips. "It became something of an involuntary tic, you know. The wind would blow and my eyes were glued to the weather vane. Couldn't tell you why," he felt his accent, barely there after years away thicken imperceptibly. "I could tell you some nonsense about trying to find direction but... I think I just liked watching it swing, seeing which way the wind was blowing."

"Yes, Jim, I do believe I understand now."


	12. Pinball Machine: James T. Kirk/Leonard McCoy, Star Trek (2009)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rosa laevigata is the state flower of Georgia.

The crew thinks Jim is invincible. Leonard knows better. Basic First Aid isn't a required class at the Academy--something he'll change if he ever gets a position at Starfleet Medical--so all they know is movies and books.

Jim gets shot in the leg and in seconds Leonard has a knee jammed down on his femoral artery and a hand pinching hard at his pelvis. He's got minutes. Maybe not even that. The beam-out seems to take forever and he doesn't move his knee until someone is handing him the tool he needs to put the artery back together.

Jim goes into anaphylaxis on planet somewhere and Leonard swears to everything holy and profane that anyone who goes down with the Captain will be required to carry an epi-spray. He's in cardiac arrest and not responding to CPR and Leonard is screaming down the comm to _"keep fucking doing it"_ because every second he's in arrest more blood is leaving his brain. They revive him, just barely. Leonard doesn't tell the young ensign Jim was with that had he been even ten seconds slower that his Captain would be brain-dead.

Jim takes an arrow to the chest and the projectile passes straight through leaving only a sucking chest wound. The transporters are offline and Leonard is rushing to the Shuttle Bay, but all the while he's telling Lieutenant Uhura that she's got to get a piece of plastic over that wound, both sides, because Jim's lung is about to collapse and he needs time for Leonard to get there and get him back. His heart and other lung are being crushed, but he's conscious and joking and they just make it back before he stops breathing.

Jim is like the ball in a pinball machine. He gets fired around the universe, hitting and grazing and slipping through various incidences--'incidences' is the word Spock uses, Leonard prefers 'clusterfucks'--and occasionally he returns to safety, to Leonard's capable hands. The metaphor falls apart around there because instead of racking up points the only thing being gained is units on Leonard's blood pressure.

Jim is his best friend and there aren't many people in the universe who've been given that title by Leonard. Bobby McPherson from infancy to fifth grade. Steven Johnson until college and that unfortunate beer-pong incident. He never thought of Jocelyn as a friend, much less a best friend, and then Jim. Jim's the only one Leonard would die for, would gallivant about the galaxy, risk everything for and Leonard figures that pretty special. Because he was friend, before he was Captain and that makes all the difference. One some people have yet to figure out.

"The Captain has been out of danger for eight point five hours, and yet you remain in sickbay?" Spock asks when he arrives.

"Him bein' 'out of danger' doesn't suddenly mean I stop caring," Leonard snaps. Spock had recognized their friendship from the get-go so it's annoying as fleas on a cat that he doesn't get this.

"I did not mean to imply anything of the sort, Doctor. Only--"

"Look, he's your Captain, I get that. And some days he's even _my_ Captain, but goddamnit Spock, he's my friend first and if that means staying in sickbay a little longer or reaming his ass out once a week over these goddamn stunts or calling him an idiot in front of God, the Admiralty, and Senior staff, I will."

Spock graces him with one perfect eyebrow lift before nodding. "I believe I begin to understand, Doctor. Thank you." He turns around and leaves and Leonard waves one hand, a "good riddance" on his breath. He grabs his padd and heads back over to Jim's bed. Christ almighty, they may as well just put a plaque on it.

"Hey 'ones," Jim rasps at him one late night in sickbay. He's supposed to be asleep, knocked out with about the only sedatives his body won't reject in the form of wretched barfing and hallucinations. It looks like he's gonna be doing research on synthesizing sedatives in the near-future.

"You should be sleepin', Jim," Leonard grumbles at him.

"What're you doin' here? Is night?"

"Except for your fool self being in here, I'd be in bed, but your reaction to that flower is givin' me fits," Leonard explains, smoothing a hand over his stubble and his wearied eyes.

"I 'as pickin' it for you," Jim says, already falling back under the compulsion of the sedative.

"That's sweet, darlin', but I'd just as soon take fake flowers if it means keepin' your ass healthy one more day," Leonard admonishes, but his words fall on unconscious ears.

He sighs and turns back to his padd, slipping in a new note on Jim's file: _Allergic to the pollen of **rosa laevigata** subspecies cultivated on Deneva._

Jim's not invincible. But as long as Bones is around, he will do his damndest to make sure he's not the opposite.


End file.
